Pleasure, Power, Pain
by Amandah Leigh
Summary: Two days after Christmas, 1970, Bellatrix Black people-watches and reflects on the confusing recent past while contemplating love... which may or may not exist. She WANTS the Dark Lord, but can he be what she NEEDS? (One-Shot, Complete, lemony, not fluff)


**Pleasure, Power, Pain**

Rating: M

Length: one-shot, complete

Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort

(Written for the Death Eater Christmas aesthetic prompt in the Death Eater Groupies FB group.)

* * *

 **Happy Couples, Happy Couples:**

 **Pleasure, Power, Pain**

Happy couples. Happy couples. Everywhere she looked, there they were. Happy fucking couples.

Well, not _fucking_ couples. Not in the moment, anyway. Not in public.

Love. They all seemed to be so thoroughly in love. What she would give to be like that… a love like that would be priceless, brighter than all the stars in the sky, warmer than the desert in summer, worth more than all the gold in Gringotts.

All those happy fucking couples had it.

And if she went through with her arranged marriage, she'd never have it.

Her brow furrowed. She glared into her mug, focusing her ire on the hot liquid within. Stupid fucking tea. Content there in the mug. Lightly steaming. Slightly cooled by milk. Not even sweetened, as she was watching her figure.

"It's all that sugar that's making you fat," her slender, delicate, too-fucking-pretty younger sister had said exactly one week before, when they'd sat down to Sunday tea together at their parents' cottage house. Narcissa was home from Hogwarts for Christmas break; Bellatrix was still living with their parents.

"How many lumps did you have the house-elf put in?" asked Narcissa. "Four?"

"Three," she'd corrected her sister. "And you can fuck off about it."

"Decorum, dear sister," Narcissa had murmured in response. It was a reminder, an admonishment… perhaps even a warning. So naturally Bellatrix had opened her mouth to say something even more vile in response, but the voice of her mother from behind her nearly caused her to drop the mug.

"Girls! You've started without me."

"Forgive us, Mummy!" Narcissa had hopped up to greet their mother, ever the dutiful daughter, the one with class, the one who studied that stupid manual on social customs and ladylike behavior as if she'd be taking an O.W.L. on the subject of etiquette. Bellatrix did not rise.

"We thought you'd not make it today," said Narcissa. "I knew you were having brunch with Mrs. Shafiq and the other Wizengamot wives."

"It's not an all-day affair, Narcissa." She kissed her youngest daughter's cheek.

"Afternoon, Mother," said Bellatrix.

"Bellatrix," said Mother.

"Was it a pleasant brunch?" asked Bellatrix, trying to be polite, even though she couldn't care less.

"Why wouldn't it be?" asked Mother.

Bellatrix fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Their mother settled in her usual place, the chair facing the roaring fireplace in their ornate parlor. Narcissa and Bellatrix, across from each other, were now on either side of her. She crossed her ankles as Narcissa did the same. Bellatrix, who had her legs crossed at the knee, knew she ought to reposition, but didn't, not even when her mother shot her a reproachful look. She was defiant in that way. In as many little ways as she could manage without seeing herself in trouble for it.

Druella Black snapped her fingers for a house-elf, told him she'd be taking her tea now, and reminded him to put the milk in _first_.

"Idiocy runs rampant in these beasts," she'd confided in her girls after he'd apparated away to the kitchen.

Tea time was like it always was. Dreadfully dull for Bellatrix, who did not enjoy answering her mother's weekly inquiries about her life and her education and her impending marriage.

"I do not understand _why_ you've insisted upon taking this internship," said Druella Black, spitting out the last word as if it tasted of cigarettes (a vice in which her eldest daughter frequently indulged, much to her displeasure). "You are an attractive pureblood woman of fine breeding and high class, and to think you degrade yourself on a daily basis-"

"I'm studying Transfiguration under Minerva McGonagall, Mother, I'm not fucking for money at the local brothel."

Druella gasped. "Bellatrix! That language."

Narcissa raised a delicate eyebrow and inclined her head slightly as if to say, "See?"

"I apologize." (If there's one thing Bellatrix hated, it was apologizing.) "But Mother, it's only a year, while she's on sabbatical from Hogwarts, and I'm learning loads-"

The disgusted wrinkle of her mother's nose cut her off.

"I meant to say, I'm learning… er… an abundance of new and important skills, skills that will be useful in the future. Rodolphus understands. He _likes_ that I'll be an educated woman. He _wants_ me to be an even more capable and formidable witch once she's through with me than I was upon taking my NEWTs!"

"You scored Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration, did you not?" asked Druella.

"I did," said Bellatrix. "But I wanted to earn an Outstanding."

As usual, her mother didn't understand. As usual, Narcissa changed the subject by bringing up her own love life. And, as usual, Andromeda arrived home too late for tea and engaged Mother in a hell of a row that deflected from the disappointment of having Bellatrix for a daughter, leaving her off the hook and out of the hot seat for another week.

Now Bellatrix sat on a poofy stool at Madam Puddifoot's, her back to the wall, her head turned to the right, staring out the window at happy couples, happy couples, happy couples.

A dark-skinned man and a freckle-faced ginger woman were holding hands and laughing, smiling at each other as if no one else existed in the world. They wore bright winter coats and fuzzy gloves and snow boots and matching Ravenclaw scarves, though they both looked too old to be current students.

A woman with several large Honeydukes bags and several small skipping children kissed a man who'd just come out of the stationary shop carrying several bags of his own. They then chatted to the children and headed off toward the Three Broomsticks, likely seeking hot cocoa and respite from the cold.

Two children who looked no older than twelve walked arm-in-arm, snickering over what was probably some adorable private joke, while an elderly man helped his tiny white-haired wife avoid a patch of ice while crossing the street, and a dark-haired woman in a long dress pulled a handsome young man with sandy brown hair under a tree branch from which some prankster had hung a sprig of mistletoe. He cupped her face and kissed her, and when they parted, they turned to head toward Madam Puddifoot's.

And Bellatrix gasped.

The young woman was her sister, Andromeda. And the man was…

"A Muggleborn?"

Bellatrix whispered it aloud, gripping her warm mug like the tea might fly away if she didn't hold on tight. She recognized that boy from Hogwarts; he was in her year, which put him two years older than her sister. A Muggleborn Hufflepuff. Ted… something. Trunks? Tunk? Bellatrix hadn't paid him much mind, especially as they hadn't had a class together since they were second or third years. She couldn't recall.

"So that's why you disappear all the time," murmured Bellatrix. "You've got yourself a filthy little secret."

Mother wouldn't like this. Not at all.

Bellatrix knew she ought to feel disgusted because of the boy's blood status and she also knew she might feel elated as sharing this with her parents would put her back in the position of second-best daughter, a place from which she'd slipped the night before when they discovered she'd been at a gathering of Death Eaters she'd not had permission to attend, but all she felt was the embarrassing burn of deep-seated envy.

Another happy couple.

A doomed couple, yes. Her parents would never allow them to wed, to say the least. But now, here, in the moment, they were happy.

They entered Madam Puddifoot's. They didn't notice Bellatrix in the corner by the window. They went straight to a both in the back, where Madam Puddifoot herself greeted them cheerily – were they regulars? – and because Andromeda again had her back to her sister, Bellatrix assume they wouldn't realize she was there unless she approached them.

Bellatrix sighed. She was nineteen years of age as of a fortnight ago, six months out of school, nearly halfway through her internship, and less than a year away from an arranged, loveless marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange, the third of four brothers of one of Wizarding Europe's oldest and most prominent pureblood families. She would give him a child – perhaps more than one, if she couldn't manage a son on the first try – and they would share a bed and a home, and after a few years he'd start coming home late, being gone overnight, bringing her home expensive gifts that didn't quite soothe the pain of knowing she was married to a man who'd rather go to bed with other women. That's how it was for her mother and father and for her aunt Walburga (father's sister) and her husband and also for her aunt Delilah (mother's sister) and her husband.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Bellatrix had once asked Delilah, the relative to whom she was closest.

"He comes home to me and he does so without bastard babies in tow," said Delilah. "What is there to be unhappy about?"

"Plenty," Bellatrix had wanted to say, but she didn't.

"That's the way it is," her aunt had continued. "Men are not unfaithful because there's something wrong with their wives. They can't help it. They're not made to be monogamous."

"And we are?" Bellatrix had asked.

Aunt Delilah had laughed. "Sex is a service you provide your husband, dear girl, not an extracurricular activity in which a lady should engage for the purpose of self-gratification!"

"Oh."

"You'll see when you lose your virginity. It's not a terrible chore, don't get me wrong, but it's nothing something you're meant to find pleasurable!"

But Bellatrix had had sex… twice in fact… and she'd certainly found it pleasurable. The second time, anyway. The first, she was too anxious to fully enjoy it.

Of course, that had been months ago, when she was young and stupid and thought _he_ might love her. Or, at the very least, value her as something more than just another doe-eyed groupie, like those simpleminded slags who followed the Veiled Vampyres on tour, hoping to catch the eye of the drummer or guitarist. She thought he might be interested in her the way she was interested in him.

She knew better now.

Her stomach churned and clenched. She breathed slowly, afraid she might vomit right there on the table in front of her. Thinking about him had excited her for the bulk of the last two years, but now, just picturing his face made her slightly sick, too. Two nights ago, she'd looked him in the eye for the first time since their second… encounter… on Halloween, and he'd simply nodded and greeted her politely like anyone else, and then moved onto the next of his followers, a broad-shouldered man named Walden Macnair.

She averted her gaze from the window, where another happy couple was torturing her as if they knew what she'd least like to look upon in this moment: he was on one knee, a ring box in his hands, and she was gasping and crying and probably saying something like, "Oh, yes, Charles, I love you and I'd love nothing more than to be your wife!"

(He looked like a Charles, Bellatrix thought. Or maybe a Benjamin. Certainly not a _Rodolphus_.)

In the opposite corner booth, Andromeda and Ted Tinker – or whatever his stupid fucking name was – were holding hands across the table, staring at each other and talking. She couldn't see her sister's face but imagined her dark eyes shining, her cheeks still a touch pink from the cold, her lips glossy and apple red even though their mother had strict rules about the makeup they were allowed to wear and brightly colored lipstick was not permitted under any circumstances, only dusky pinks and barely tinted nudes.

Bellatrix set down her mug. She had hoped the chamomile tea would calm her, but she felt ill and sad and lonely and desperate and confused.

Narcissa, barely fifteen, had been started seriously seeing recently come-of-age Lucius Malfoy for nearly a year. He was perhaps the greatest 'catch' in their social circle for girls within three years of his age in either direction, so this thrilled Mother and Father. Lucius Malfoy was wealthy, handsome, from the most well-respected, well-connected, and old-world family in all of the United Kingdom, the only son of the only son of an only son.

Cissy and Mother were having Sunday tea with Mrs. Malfoy and her mother-in-law this afternoon, in fact, which is why Bellatrix didn't have to be home… and Andromeda, for once, wouldn't be scolded for her tardiness. No one would even realize they were out, as Father frequently spent weekends "working" from their apartment in Paris… where his mistress just happened to reside.

Father, not Mother, had been the one to fly off the broom handle the other night, when he caught Bellatrix sneaking back into the cottage house well after midnight. It was Christmas – or, technically, the wee hours of Boxing Day – and she hadn't expected anyone to still be awake, especially as she'd thought them all asleep before she slipped out.

When she'd climbed in the window, afraid to travel by Floo and risk being detected, he'd been sitting there in mother's chair facing the fireplace, waiting.

The room was dark save for the dying fire. He had a book in his lap, but it was not open. There was an open bottle of firewhisky on the small table to his right; this was definitely open, as the entire room smelled of cinnamon. She wondered whether he'd spilled some. Or perhaps thrown a glass of it into the fireplace.

"You were at one of those gatherings," he said, not looking at her. The fire flickered in his eyes. She had her mother's eyes, as did Andromeda. Rosier eyes, heavy-lidded, inky brown. Only Narcissa inherited his cold blue ones, framed by dark lashes.

"You support his cause," said Bellatrix. She closed the window, slipped her wand up her sleeve, and brushed the snow from her hair.

"I support his cause, yes. But I do not support my daughter joining his regime. Perhaps, if I had a son-"

"But you don't have a son," she'd pointed out unnecessarily. "You only have me. I'm the one who'll bring honor to this family by-"

"By marrying the Lestrange boy, giving him a son, and knowing your place."

"Daddy, please…" She hadn't called him daddy in years, but desperate times cause for desperate measures. "Daddy, I don't want that to be the entirety of my life. I don't want to be like Mother. I'm smart! I'm talented! I was in the dueling club, I can translate Ancient Runes, I achieved high marks on all my N.E.W.T.s… the Sorting Hat nearly put me in Ravenclaw because-"

This was the wrong thing to say.

"Because the Sorting Hat thinks you belong among the Muggleborns and Squibs?"

She didn't bother pointing out that not only were there no Squibs at Hogwarts, but if there were, they'd surely be Hufflepuffs.

"I can be of value to the Dark Lord!"

"You can be of value to your husband!"

"Rodolphus is a Death Eater!" She shouted it. She hadn't meant to shout it.

"What?"

She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

"Rodolphus and his brother, Rabastan – the two youngest brothers – they both received the Dark Mark tonight. They've proven themselves to the Dark Lord. He called them assets. He praised them in front of all who were present. And so many were present tonight, Daddy! Walden Macnair and his uncle, Warren. Vincent Crabbe. Isadora Dali. Augustus Rookwood. Antonin Dolohov. Percival Tannenbaum. Uncle Orion!" This one made her father's eyes widen. And she'd saved the most impressive for last. "And Abraxas Malfoy with his son, Lucius."

"It's no place for a lady," said Cygnus Black after a brief silence. "No further discussion."

"But Isadora Dali is a wom-"

"I said, no further discussion. Get to bed, now, before your mother discovered this transgression."

"Daddy-"

"And stop calling me 'daddy.' You're nineteen years old, Bellatrix, not a child." He stood and shook his head, reached for the firewhisky bottle, and swore under his breath. "I knew it was a mistake, letting you take that internship with that Dumbledore-worshiping harpy, McGonagall."

"I earned it, Da… Father! I had the highest score on my Transfiguration NEWT-"

"An Exceeds Expectations." He scoffed. "If she were any sort of teacher, you'd have all managed Outstanding."

"It's an impossibly difficult practical exam! You'd have to be an Animagi to manage Outs-"

"Go upstairs. I can't look at you right now. Do you know what people would think, if they knew you were out, unchaperoned, at all hours of the night? What the Lestranges would think?"

"They were there! Rodolph-"

"Bed!" he'd barked. "If I have to tell you again, I'll wake your mother."

Defeated, Bellatrix had obeyed. Overall, it had been a disappointing night. The Dark Lord acted as though he'd never seen her before, as if he'd forgotten the last time they'd seen each other, when she'd been naked and writhing under him, gasping and sighing and digging her fingernails into the backs of his shoulders while he bit her neck and thrust into her.

Her nose twitched as tears burned in the corners of her eyes. She blinked several times, trying to make them go away, afraid if she had to start wiping them away with her sleeve she'd end up sobbing into her tea right there in front of everyone at Madam Puddifoot's.

"Might I get you anything else?"

Bellatrix flinched. She hadn't realized the proprietor was standing right beside her.

"Do you have hot chocolate?" She didn't know what made her ask. Hot chocolate seemed such a silly choice for a grown woman alone in a tea shop two days after Christmas, but Madam Puddifoot nodded.

"Regular or peppermint?"

"Peppermint," said Bellatrix. "With whipped cream?"

"Of course." Madam Puddifoot hurried off.

Outside, a group of friends in Hufflepuff scarves and homemade wool hats were skating down the street on the ice in their trainers – poor choice of footwear given the weather – while a familiar man with a long beard headed in the opposite direction. Bellatrix sneered at him. While she appreciated McGonagall's Transfiguration talent and fair teaching methods, she loathed that Muggle-loving, favorite-playing, barmy old coot Dumbledore. How many times had he taken points from her for doing the same things he ignored when it was his precious Gryffindor's doing them? How many times had he prattled on about school unity and cooperation across Houses only to then promote divisiveness by pitting them against in each other a thousand subtle ways? How many times had he called her into his office to chat about her future as if she didn't know he was really seeking information about the Dark Lord, as if she wasn't an astute Occlumens who could feel his attempts to rifle around in her mind?

 _Fuck Albus Dumbledore._

He turned as if someone at the tea shop had called his name. She slunk back against the wall and closed her mind, just in case it was her hatred he was "hearing."

She glanced up at the clock on the far wall. She should head for home soon. She had no idea what time Mother and Cissy would return, but suspected it would be best if she were there… and Andromeda, too.

She checked them out again. Now they were feeding each other bits of some sort of pastry and laughing. Vile.

Bellatrix's stomach swirled again. She was starving but she'd been so depressed lately it had been a struggle to keep food down, so she'd been cutting back.

(Okay, her sister's comments about her weight gain had something to do with the sudden fasting, too. But she liked to tell herself it mostly wasn't about that, as she wasn't so vain she'd alter her entire diet just because Cissy insulted her; she was far too strong-willed.)

Madam Puddifoot brought the hot chocolate. In addition to the whipped cream, she'd stuck a red and white striped candy cane in the green porcelain mug. Very festive.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear." Madam Puddifoot bustled away to greet customers at the door. Bellatrix took out the candy cane, swirled some whipped cream around it, and sucked it off the end, which had already melted into a sharp point.

The Dark Lord had invited her to his headquarters for dinner. He was having a small gathering, he'd explained, to celebrate the holiday. This had been the most he'd spoken to her in months, and he'd invited her almost as an afterthought, after extending the invitation to Isadora Dali and her husband, Diego, with whom Bellatrix was discussing the study of alchemy.

She knew her parents would not give permission.

She was considering going anyway. After all, who was she to turn down the Dark Lord? She hadn't turned him down before, and she was certain her parents would be even more disapproving of what they did then than they would be a meal shared with others.

Her face and neck went hot thinking about it, hotter than the drink in her hand. The way he'd gently caressed her cheek. The way his nimble fingers had made quick work of the hooks on her corset. The way he'd laid her on the bed. The way his tongue had explored her mouth.

The way he made her make sounds she didn't know she could or imagine she ever would.

The way her stomach fluttered when he whispered delicious vulgarities in her ear.

The way she saw stars that second time they were together, when she hit her peak for the first time ever, and realized her aunt Delilah and her mother and her grandmother had likely never felt like this, because surely, if they had, they wouldn't look the other way while their philandering husbands brought this sort of bliss to another woman.

When she'd gotten home that night, Halloween night – or, technically, before dawn the next morning – no one had been any the wiser. She'd slipped in through the window and up to her bedroom, silently cursing her father's paranoia about nefarious strangers apparating into the house (which is why he used anti-apparation jinxes over the entire property, thus requiring even members of the Black family to apparate to the heavily wooded path beyond the gates instead of to the front hall like _normal_ wizarding families). She'd taken a shower, though it pained her to wash away his scent, and she'd examined her body in the mirror, delighting in every little forming bruise from where he'd held her too tight, every tiny indentation from his perfect teeth, every raised purplish mark on her neck and chest that his sucking mouth had left behind…

The first time they'd been together, over the summer, she'd been too anxious to enjoy it, and it had been quicker. Frenzied. They were at the massive home of her future in-laws, who were hosting an unnecessarily formal engagement party for the second-eldest son, Reginald, who was marrying Penelope Shafiq, member of the Sacred 28, youngest of three daughters.

Bellatrix had been wearing a floor-length gown, deep crimson in color, with a low scooped neckline, trim bodice, and ornate beadwork at the bottom. A gown her parents hated for different reasons.

"White, black, pale pink, light blue…" her mother had said. "Those are the colors respectable young ladies wear to these sort of things. That dress is the color of blood and sin! You'll look like a woman of the night!"

"The neckline is too low, the back is too revealing, and it's too tight around the middle and across the bum," her father had said. "You'll look like a woman of the night!"

(Not _so very different_ reasons after all, she supposed.)

Andromeda had worn a pale blue gown, simple, with cap sleeves. Narcissa had worn off-white, a dress that flared out at the waist in a way that made her look like a jewelry box ballerina. Andromeda's hair was in one long French braid. Narcissa's was pulled into two. Neither of them had it up in a messy but purposeful bun, with barely-tamed curls cascading down their backs. And neither had worn colored lipstick.

Bellatrix's lips matched her gown.

Mother and Father had both been furious about that, but they could hardly force her to go wipe it off with everyone they knew standing around listening, ready to gossip if it appeared they'd lost control of their girls.

The Dark Lord had noticed her. For the first time, he truly _noticed_ her. And after the meal, while everyone was dancing and laughing and chatting and drinking, he invited her to take a walk across the grounds with him.

They'd only made it as far as the greenhouse when he'd made his intentions known.

"You've grown into a beautiful woman," he'd said. He was beautiful himself. Striking eyes, smooth skin, soft hair, a strong nose, a defined (but not over-defined) jawline. He'd brushed a curly escaped tendril of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Not to mention brilliant. Your father bragged of your N.E.W.T. marks. Impressive."

"He did?" She never got the impression her parents were all that proud to have a smart daughter when having an obedient one was so much more important.

"He did." He moved closer. Her chest brushed against his. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," she'd answered, mesmerized by this close proximity, tingling from his touch. "And a half."

"A half." He chuckled. "Out of school?"

"Yes, sir."

"No need to call me sir." His hand went to her hip. "Not when there's no one else here."

"Yes, si-"

"Hush." He pressed his lips to hers and she froze. She'd never been kissed before, not really, not unless one counted the time William Wallingford had smooched her unexpectedly on a dare when they were sixth years, for which he'd hexed his trousers to shreds, leaving him in his underpants in front of everyone in the Common Room. He'd never bothered her again. And she didn't think it should count. A kiss should only count if both parties wanted it to happen, she decided.

And she wanted this one to happen.

The Dark Lord's tongue flicked against her lower lip and the little gasp it elicited from her was enough to grant his tongue entrance into her mouth.

Her first _real_ kiss.

After that, it all went quite quickly. He asked whether she was a virgin and she was relatively sure she'd said yes, but it was as if her mind filled with bubbles, pushing out all capability of rational thought. She remembered feeling anxious, but also excited, and she remembered that it hurt when he entered her – first with his fingers and then with _himself_ – it wasn't at all what she'd envisioned her first time to be, she didn't even know what he _looked like_ … _there_ … as he was behind her, bending her over against a table, touching her intimately from behind, caressing her breast with one hand and rubbing the other between her legs. Her unzipped gown was pushed up on her waist and her knickers were in his pocket. Her feet were sore from the strappy heels she'd stupidly worn and the sex hadn't lasted all that long, but overall, she'd say she liked it, even though her body ached for several hours after the party had ended. She liked it because it was him. And she worshipped him.

The second time was much better. He'd invited her to his current hideaway, apparating them both there from that spot beyond the gates protecting her parents' cottage house from nefarious strangers. He'd fully undressed her, taking his time, and explored her with his hands and lips and tongue, and let her do the same to him, and then, when they were done, he'd kissed her and told her again that she was beautiful and brilliant. He'd said he wanted to see her again.

And then he hadn't.

She knew other Death Eater gathering had happened. People talked. And the Lestrange brothers were all invited to every single one.

But she was not.

At first, she checked the mail incessantly, staring out the window, hoping for an Owl. But as November moved into December and December marched on toward January, she gave up hope.

Her stomach rumbled. Her body was happy to have the peppermint hot chocolate – something almost like sustenance – but she couldn't shake that sick feeling that had been plaguing her since… well, she wasn't sure exactly, but it started sometime between Halloween and Christmas.

She sipped the drink. It was half gone and she couldn't actually recall taking a single sip, she'd been so lost in thought.

"Mind if I join you?" asked the voice of a man standing behind the chair opposite her. He was wearing a balaclava, scarf, winter coat… thoroughly covered up. She was about to tell him to bugger off when their eyes met.

He had beautiful eyes.

"My Lord?" she whispered. He nodded, ever-so-slightly.

"I… yes, please, sit!"

He did. He did not remove the face covering, which muffled his voice. "I've been looking for you, Bellatrix."

"I… I live with my parents. Sir."

"I know. But I thought it might not be prudent to drop in on you at their home. Though your father is one of my staunchest supporters, I doubt he'd approve of my desire to repeatedly violate his eldest daughter."

The tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end.

"I don't think of it as a violation, my Lord," she said softly, aware that no one but her could realize he was present.

"I have a new… home. Would you like to see it?"

"To see your home?"

"The family from whom I've borrowed it has an expansive art collection. Have you ever seen five-hundred ornate, bejeweled, gold-plated Fabergé eggs all in one place?"

"No, never."

He stood, pulled several galleons out of his pocket, and tossed them down on the table, far exceeding what she owed Madam Puddifoot. "We'll apparate from outside, obviously."

"Is that where you're having tonight's dinner party?"

"Yes." He looked her over. She was dressed relatively simply today, in a plain black dress that went to the tops of her shoes (winter boots). It had long sleeves and a high neck. She worn it because it was warm and she hated resorting to warming charms. They made her hair frizz. She pulled on her coat and reached for her scarf.

"We'll stop at the dress shop," he said. "You cannot wear that."

The dress shop in Hogsmeade was one Mother frequented, though she preferred their larger location, hidden in what looked like an abandoned chain store in Muggle London. Sensing he didn't want to stand around and watch, so she selected one she was reasonably certain would flatter her, tried it on as quickly as she could, and decided to buy.

Again, he paid, even though she had an account there.

"Gold means little to me," he said dismissively. "What are Galleons?"

They apparated to the bottom of a steep hill. She gasped, staring up at the impressive white mansion visible at the top, surrounded by snow-covered trees. It had a large tower to one side; she could already envision a spiral staircase like the one in the Hogwarts astronomy tower, and she hoped there was a velvet window seat at the top. She loved staring out windows. Well, usually she did. Not so much today, what with happy couples oozing out all over Hogsmeade.

It was snowing pretty hard here. The hill would not be easy to walk. Her boots had a heel. They kept her feet dry and warm, but were hardly made for hiking.

"We'll apparate to the top," he said, likely reading her mind. He'd removed the balaclava. "But I wanted you to see it from a distance."

"It's incredible," she breathed. "You live here?"

"For now." He smiled. "You've heard of Grindelwald?"

"Of course!"

"When he was in need of a temporary home, he'd choose one to his liking and kill the family. Parents. Children. Pets. This was a mistake. Eventually, someone would come looking for them. People would become suspicious. Authorities would get involved. He'd have to flee, sometimes without warning. I'm much smarter."

"What do you do?"

"This family has another home, in Barcelona. They're gone from November through April. They have a caretaker. Old. Lives alone."

"You killed the caretaker?"

"Unnecessary. Even a missing caretaker might get noticed. I learned long ago it's best to avoid being noticed." He took her hand in his. She had to struggle to keep from exploding from the sheer thrill of it. She wondered if they looked like that first couple she'd seen earlier, the couple who'd smiled at each other as if no one else existed in the world.

She felt like that, now. In this remote location, staring up at this massive mansion, surrounded by snow-covered trees. Barely noticing the cold. Hand in his. In her other hand, she clutched the bag from the dress shop.

"This caretaker lives at the bottom of the hill. He goes into town once per week for supplies. Which he will continue to do. He brings them to me and I modify his memories. He thinks he's doing all of his duties as directed and I reap the benefits of fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs, and bread right to my door every week. When the family returns, I shall be long gone, and no one – including the old man – will be any the wiser. Grindelwald was always on the run, always on high alert, when staying in the homes of those he'd killed. Not me." He smiled at her. "I can sleep peacefully at night."

"Thank you for showing me."

"To the top of the hill." He apparated them to the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door.

The inside was as lovely as the outside. She shook the snow from her hair, he waved his wand, sending their coats and things into the parlor to dry by the fireplace, and then he gave her a tour of the ground floor, finishing with a large dining room. There was a long, heavy oak table in the center, curio cabinets to either end of the room, and an incredible view out massive picture windows, which looked out over the tops of the trees.

There was a Christmas tree in one corner, almost as large as the one in the parlor. The ornaments included rust-colored baubles, gold and copper balls, and real sprigs of holly. Rustic, but elegant.

"Go change into your dress," said the Dark Lord. "Dinner will be ready soon."

She hurried to retrieve it from the parlor and locked herself in the toilet off it. She wished she had makeup on her, or something with which she could fix her hair, but she did her best with a bit of magic. The dress was not as stunning as the crimson one she'd worn the party, but she felt sexy in it. It was tight, so tight she worried it would be hard to sit down, so tight she worried it showed off that little belly Narcissa had been so helpful about noting, but it also highlighted the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts and the roundness of her arse, and the color – the same pine green as the trees outside – somehow made her eyes look brighter. Realizing she could not tame her hair, she instead embraced the wild curls, fluffing them with her fingers, giving them even more body. She used gloss on her lips because she had it on hand and silently cursed herself for never learning to do that mascara-application spell Andromeda was so fond of. She transfigured her boots into stylish ones more befitting of the dress, though she couldn't turn them into the strappy heels she wished she was wearing; she'd have to ask McGonagall if they could work on that, provided such a question didn't make her look like one of those flighty girls one couldn't take seriously. Once she was ready, she folded her other attire, stuffed it in the dress shop bag, and shoved it under the sink for safe-keeping. She then headed back to the dining room.

The table was set for two.

"Is… who… are we expecting other…"

"Isadora and Diego had another commitment, unfortunately. We're alone."

"Oh?" Her stomach twisted, her heart fluttered, and she nearly lost her ability to stand unassisted.

"This suits you." He rose from the table, moving to her, and kissed her cheek with a familiarity she wasn't quite ready for, which was silly considering their history.

"The caretaker was kind enough to cook for us." He winked at this as if they shared an inside joke, then waved his wand and on their plates appeared lamb chops and sides, which both looked and smelled delicious. Elf-made red wine filled their glasses and the fireplace behind them roared to life. "Sit."

She sat.

Over dinner, he quizzed her about her studies. In particular, he wanted to know what she was working on with Minerva McGonagall.

"I want to be an Animagus. I was doing well at first, managing ears, a tail, a nose… but lately…" Her voice trailed off. In truth, she hadn't managed to transfigure any part of herself at all since their Halloween encounter, which she attributed to nerves. Professor McGonagall said it wasn't magic for those with lack of confidence, and her insecurities had been at an all-time high recently.

Then he quizzed her about her engagement to Rodolphus Lestrange.

"Mother and Father chose him. They're not forcing me to marry him, but they arranged it with his parents."

"He prefers the company of men," said the Dark Lord. "You know that, don't you?"

Her cheeks burned as if this was something that should bring her deep personal shame.

"I know." (But she hadn't known.)

"Most importantly, though, he's unquestionably pureblood, of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. His family line is solid. You'll give him the son he needs and the deflection from rumors he needs even more."

"But we'll never love each other," she said miserably, suddenly feeling like crying again. She hated this. She didn't know what had come over her lately, but she was crying more than she ever had in her younger years. Crying, hungry, sick, confused, unable to sleep… losing her virginity had taken its toll on her psyche.

"Is that something you need?" he asked, seemingly genuinely perplexed. "Love?"

"Isn't it something we all need?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't believe it exists, frankly."

"You don't believe love exists?"

"I've never seen it," he said. "Nor felt it. Have you?"

"I…" Had she seen it? She thought about all the couples she'd watched from the window. They'd certainly seemed like they loved each other. They'd all been happy. Happy couples, happy couples.

But did that mean they were in love?

In love the way she wanted to be?

The way she thought she might be with the Dark Lord?

There were times her parents seemed like a happy couple. It might look like love to outsiders. But how could it be, when her father was content to keep a mistress and her mother was content to let him?

She felt it, hadn't she? She loved her parents, didn't she?

Or did she tell them she loved them because it was expected of her, just as marrying Rodolphus was expected of her, and giving him a son was expected of her, and forgoing the fulfilment of her own ambitious was expected of her?

"I don't know," she answered finally. Dejectedly. "Perhaps not?"

"There is power. There is pleasure. There is pain. There is no love. It is not necessary."

"But what good is pleasure without love?"

"What good was pleasure on Halloween?"

She blushed again, as crimson as her dress on that first night. She didn't know how, but he had her bewitched in a way that didn't require magic, a way that no other man or boy had ever made her feel. She'd never blushed for a male before, not like she did with him.

Of course, at Hogwarts, the prospects had been limited.

"Without love, there is pain," she said. "Those who live without love carry pain inside them."

"I live without love," he said, shrugging. "It does not cause me pain."

"Love itself can cause more pain than a lack of it," she posited. "You can cause a person more pain by hurting what they love than by hurting them."

"Can you?"

"Yes," she said definitively. She remembered how it had felt the first time she caught the girls who'd bullied her in school targeting her sister, Andromeda. She'd always kept her head down and tried to avoid them, only hexing back if absolutely necessary as she hated getting in trouble (receiving Howlers from her mother after Owls home from her Head of House, Slughorn, was particularly humiliating). But when she caught them making Andromeda cry in the girls' toilet, all ganged up on the poor first year, she'd gone mad, brandishing her wand and sending four of them to the hospital wing with moderate to severe burns. Why would she have reacted so intensely if she did not love her sister?

"There is only pain, pleasure, and power," he reiterated. "The greatest of which is power, which can be obtained through both the causing of pain and the giving of pleasure."

She pondered this.

"But why seek power at all if not for the love of it?"

"Why, indeed." He smiled, amused by her. Enchanted, even. Though not in love, obviously. "You're a bright young woman, Bellatrix. I've long known how special you are. I have few female followers, but you… I could see you being the first woman to take the Dark Mark."

Her heart danced in her chest. She nearly hopped out of her seat. "Could you, my Lord?"

"You have potential. I predict great things for your future."

She beamed. Though "I've long known how special you are" wasn't exactly the "I love you, too" she was hoping for, it felt pretty damned wonderful.

After dinner, they toured the rest of the house. There was, just as she'd hoped, a velvet window seat at the top of the turret, from which they had an even more incredible view of the forest around them. It was still snowing, though the squall had given way to light flurries.

They talked. They laughed. They explored the library. They discussed the future, a future in which witches and wizards would no longer be subjugated and forced to live in secret. He was a passionate speaker. And though she knew he wouldn't believe it, she could feel herself falling more in love with him with every moment.

"My parents will be worried," she said when night had fallen. "They expected me hours ago."

"No, I sent an Owl telling them not to expect you home at all tonight."

Her mouth gaped.

"Unless you'd rather not stay." He slipped an arm around her waist, settling his hand on her lower back, and drew her toward him. "Would you like to stay, Bellatrix?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I want to stay."

They retired to the master bedroom. He undressed her slowly before undressing himself. He kissed her. He said again that she was special, different, brilliant, beautiful.

He lowered her onto the bed.

He used his mouth on her in a way he hadn't the last time, licking and teasing and sucking and tasting, bringing her to the brink of bliss then drawing away, making her suffer, though it was a tolerable agony, for every time he moved his body back up beside hers, she was able to touch him, to kiss him, to stroke him, to gauge his arousal, knowing he was as turned on by her and she was by him.

She orgasmed while his fingers were inside her, while his mouth was focused on the little bud she'd curiously flicked and rubbed a few times but never managed to use to bring herself this degree of pleasure before. Then he covered her body with his, flicked his snake-like tongue against her earlobe, and groaned compliments peppered by soft expletives into her ear. This time, when his stiff, throbbing cock entered her, there was no sharp ache, no natural resistance as there had been both times before. No pain. Only more pleasure.

He held complete power over her.

And she loved it.

She tried to meet his thrusts as they developed a rhythm. She felt she was getting the hang of this. He groaned and grunted, caressed her breasts and thighs, and began to lose control...

After a few blissful minutes, he swore, pulled her hair, and came hard inside her. Then he kissed her, murmured her name, and moved to lie beside her.

"I can stay the night?" she asked, needing confirmation.

"Yes," he said.

They slept naked, under the warm blankets, with the fireplace going.

Sunlight was streaming through the window when she awoke, much earlier than she would have liked. She didn't feel well. She slipped out of bed and into the master bath, where she tossed what was left of the lamb and wine from the night before into the toilet. She washed her mouth out with something appropriately called Mouthwash, which was sat on the sink in a large bottle, and brushed her teeth with her finger. She relieved herself, washed her hands, and looked herself over in the mirror before scurrying back in the bedroom, and into bed, with him.

He shifted to his side, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Is it mine?" he asked.

"What?"

"Is it mine?" He placed his hand over her lower abdomen. "Isadora realized it on Christmas. She told me. And she's never wrong about these things. As you were a virgin over the summer and I know Rodolphus has no interest, I assume it was my doing."

"Isadora realized what?" She turned her head, looking to him quizzically.

He pressed his palm down lightly on her lower abdomen, as if to punctuate the point she was not getting. "I am not, by nature, a reckless man, nor am I a forgiving one, but I cannot fault you alone, as I've undoubtedly been the instigator and you were unprepared. Do you know where to go for an abortion?"

Her entire body went cold, colder than the snow swirling outside the window.

"No, it's not possible."

"Isadora is never wrong about these things," he repeated. "Never."

"I'm pregnant?" Her voice was small. Confused. Terrified. _Horrified_.

But also, ever so slightly… _happy_.

A baby.

"You didn't know?"

"I… I can't…" But it made sense. The sickness. The sleeplessness.

She couldn't recall when she'd last had her cycle.

Mid-October, she supposed.

"I didn't know."

"Now, you know." He kissed her temple and chuckled, as if this was any other conversation, as if this wasn't about to change her entire life. "Isadora can show you where to go, once you're in the city."

"To go? Which city?" For a girl who'd always been top of her class, bright, talented, capable, she certainly felt stupid this morning, in bed with this man, not quite catching his meaning.

"For the abortion," he said simply. "In Paris. I'll pay for it to avoid the uncomfortable situation that would be requesting money from your parents. It's only fair."

"Fair," she repeated. But it _wasn't_ fair. She'd only just this moment discovered she was having a baby. She wasn't ready for it to be taken away already, too. Shouldn't they talk about this? Think about it? Discuss their options?

"She'll be here in a few hours," said the Dark Lord. "She'll be taking you to Paris. You'll be home before dinner. Don't worry, I'm told it's painless."

Painless.

No, _powerless_. That's how she felt. Powerless. For a bit of pleasure, she was to experience pain, and she was powerless to stop it.

"It's early." He pulled her against him, so she could rest her head on the center of his chest. "We can sleep another three hours, then shower and dress. She won't be here until ten-thirty. Your appointment is at eleven. You'll travel to Paris by Portkey."

"My appoint-"

"Hush."

That's the same thing he's said to her before kissing her for the first time, in the Lestrange's greenhouse over the summer.

"Sleep, now. She'll be here at ten-thirty."

She closed her eyes and tried not to cry.

Happy couples, happy couples, happy couples.

She was not destined to be one-half of one of them.

His breathing changed. It was deep. Even. Regular. The breath of sleep.

She slipped her hand between them, over her lower abdomen. Was Isadora correct? There was a baby in there? How big was it? The size of a grape, maybe? Or even smaller. A speck of dust? She had no idea. Hogwarts didn't exactly have a course in fetus gestation, and her mother's sex talk could basically be summed up as, "Don't have sex."

For a "smart" girl, she felt woefully ignorant.

A baby. She pictured herself with a baby. A little boy or girl with a button nose and pink cheeks. Being cradled in a rocker, swaddled in a yellow cotton blanket. Wearing teeny purple shoes and one of those headbands with a bow on the side. Breastfeeding. Being rocked to sleep in the nursery that had once been hers.

A toddler. A little girl or boy with her dark eyes and his soft hair. Dressed in his winter coat and wooly hat and snow boots, staring up at the trees outside. Running down the street in Hogsmeade. Exploring Honeydukes, bursting from excitement. Dribbling hot chocolate down his chin at Madam Puddifoots, barely able to hold himself up on one of those poofy stools. Saying, "Mumma, watch this!"

Loving her completely.

The Dark Lord was wrong. Love existed, even if he claimed he'd neither felt it nor seen evidence of it. It existed, even if it brought people more pain than pleasure. Even if it got in the way of power.

He was right about not feeling love, though. He clearly didn't love her if he could sleep so soundly while she was in pain. What was the purpose, then, of bringing her here, sharing a meal, taking her to bed?

Manipulation?

Or was he just too concerned with his own pleasure to consider what a night like last before news like this could do to a young woman?

Perhaps the problem wasn't him, but her. Was she weak?

She hated the thought of being weak. It was love's fault. Love made people weak.

A hot tear rolled from her eye across her cheek and down onto his bare chest.

When she got home later tonight, her parents would be furious. She was sure of that. No Owl he'd sent could possibly keep them from being furious.

To take the heat off her, she'd have to tell them about Andromeda and the Muggleborn boy. An unfortunate casualty of war, so to speak. It would pain her to do it, but it had to be done.

And that meant, but this time tomorrow, the world would have one less happy couple.

Pain. Pleasure. Power.

Love was at the root of all of them.

And it was worthless.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thanks for reading! Sorry it's a bit of a bummer at the end, but I hope you enjoyed a little trip into Bellatrix's mind... more than a decade before she convicted of torturing the Longbottoms and twenty-five years before Harry meets her in the Ministry for Magic. Please let me know what you thought! Thanks.

 **-AL**


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